Mirror, Mirror, On the Wall
by CeliaEquus
Summary: In which Steve escapes the orphanage to stay with Bucky, ends up working at the same hotel, and keeps avoiding Regina Schmidt's attempts to have him killed so that she can be the fairest of them all. Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers, or any other Marvel thingummies, nor am I making money from this.
1. Red, White, and Blue

"Red, White, and Blue"

Sarah Rogers, newly widowed and desperate for a child, stared out across the street. She was sitting, practising her embroidery, when a slight breeze stirred the snow. Most was slush, but some fresh flakes remained at her feet, blown onto the porch overnight.

When her rocking chair came down sharply, she pricked her finger, and immediately pulled her injured hand away from the embroidery before it could be ruined. Red droplets hit the white ground; and, for a moment, she was transfixed. A squeal from the boy next door broke her reverie, and she went back to imagining her perfect child.

"Lips as red as blood," she murmured. "Skin as white as snow. And eyes…" She noticed the colour of thread, thankfully not marred by blood. "Eyes as blue as the sky. Red, white, and blue." She chuckled at how patriotic her thoughts remained, despite her husband dying for his country, or perhaps because of it. She sucked the blood from her finger, slowing the flow of it with her tongue, and glanced over to the neighbours when she heard the door slam. Mrs. Barnes was there with her toddler son, James.

"If I had a child," Sarah said to herself, "he and James would be playmates. But I am barren, and a widow." Tears prickled her eyes as she gazed at the heavens. "But please, God, if I could have a child…?"

* * *

It annoyed Steve, the way he was babied. Yeah, he was a bit weaker than most kids, but he was sick a lot of the time. That wasn't his fault.

He'd once heard his mother say that it was a miracle that he was born. A true miracle. And she'd called him a miracle to his face, though Steve guessed it was supposed to be comforting. Well, it wasn't. Not when even Bucky held back with him when they were playing, then mock-fighting. How was Steve supposed to learn to defend himself unless Bucky stopped holding his punches and actually _taught_ Steve?

It wasn't like Steve had a dad to teach him. And Mr. Barnes wasn't around all that often, so Steve didn't really have a father figure. Hence, trusting Bucky.

Then there was a train accident. All three parents died on the scene.

* * *

Bucky was growing too old for the orphanage. It was okay at first. Yeah, it sucked that their parents were dead. Steve had never had a pop, and Bucky sometimes felt like he barely knew his own father. But their moms were gone, and it was… hell, it was damn hard. He knew Steve had nightmares. Bucky didn't; but he did have sleepless nights, and it took a toll.

And then that _witch_ took over.

Steve and Bucky were at the orphanage barely a year when the old head, Mrs. Wright, retired. More like pushed out, it seemed, for extravagant spending. Seemed the council didn't like that, especially when there were still kids their age around, mooching off the system. If it was easier to find jobs in New York, Bucky would've got something by now, enough to support both him and Steve if he could.

"I swear, we'll get out of here one day," he always told Steve. Steve would just shrug, say that it'd all be fine in the end, and Bucky would want to strangle him for his positive attitude.

Mrs. Wright left, and Regina Schmidt took over. Beautiful as a model, and evil as Satan himself. The staff mockingly called her The Queen, but all the kids called her The Witch. Gone were desserts. The kids spent less time on their studies and more time begging in the streets or learning needlecraft to make cheap clothes. The council turned a blind eye. As long as money was rolling in, instead of out, they didn't give a damn.

Bucky had had enough.

"The job's just across the water, the Howell Hotel," he told Steve, shoving clothes into his bag. "It's not much, but it's a start. I'm gonna find some place for us to stay, if I can, and when I've got enough money, I'll send for you. Send in as many job applications as you can for places in New Jersey. Okay, punk?"

"Yeah, okay," Steve said. "You'll do great, Buck."

Bucky smiled, and tousled his best friend's hair. "I promise I won't forget you. Friends `til the end of the line."

"Blood brothers," Steve added. Bucky remembered all too clearly the day he'd defended Steve from bullies, and they'd both ended up bloodied. They'd made a pact, pressing injured fists together and letting their blood mingle.

"Keep an eye on the younger kids, okay?" Bucky said, and he bit the inside of his cheek as he studied Steve anxiously. "Maybe you should just come with me right now?"

"I'll be fine! Get going, Bucky, or you'll miss your boat."

Bucky gave him a last hug at the door, laughing as Steve shoved him in the direction of the docks. He waved before turning the corner, only to see Regina pull Steve back in at the last moment. He gave her the finger, hoping that no one would be punished for it, and then ran all the way to the river. The sooner he found an escape for Steve, the better.

* * *

Regina Schmidt had a vice. The city council and orphanage governors didn't know that she was saving more than she let on; the little she kept that wasn't her salary went towards her favourite club. As she settled down on her usual couch and sank into the intoxicating sensations brought on by opium, her head lolled back, and he came to her again. The face.

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall," she slurred, looking nowhere and everywhere. "Who is the fairest of them all?"

"You are," the face replied. Its voice was serpentine, weaving through her senses. Regina raised one leg and cocked it over the other, bent at the knee. She arched her back and smiled widely.

Yes. She was always the fairest one of all.

* * *

This continued once a month, and then once a week. A matter of days after the old brat, Bucky Barnes, finally left the children's asylum, Regina overheard some of the girls giggling. She sneered, but they hadn't noticed her yet.

"Steve's so handsome," one of the girls sad. "Now Bucky's gone, you can really see it, can't you?"

"Yeah," another sighed. "And he's so kind. He'd be perfect if he wasn't so scrawny."

"He ain't scrawny," a third brat said. "He's been getting kinda muscly. He doesn't even really need his puffer much anymore."

The kids' health was an annoying expense, but if she didn't pay for it then the council would investigate, and probably discover Regina's little… indiscretions. Then she'd be done for. If only Steve Rogers didn't cost so much more than the other children to keep alive…

The solution came to her that night. She consulted her magic mirror as soon as it appeared with her first inhale.

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall," she said. "Who's the fairest of them all?"

"Steve Rogers is by far the fairest," the mirror said. Regina nearly choked on the smoke.

"What?" she hissed. "He is not!"

"Have you not seen him?" the mirror asked. "Have you not heard others speak of his beauty of heart and his handsome features?"

Regina could have screamed. She vowed then and there that she would have him killed. Only _she_ could be the fairest!

* * *

Steve vaguely flipped through the newspaper. The headlines were all about a mysterious substance which was being used by a serial killer. None of the victims had anything in common, aside from their deaths. But it was far too depressing. He preferred to find the black-and-white comics, and cut them out for the children to colour in.

And then he would look at the job ads. Nothing much for New Jersey. Some factories were hiring manual labourers, but they'd only have to take one look at his medical records and reject him on the spot. The army would do the same, and that didn't matter anyway. Steve had promised to join Bucky. Sure, he didn't have an address yet – he'd been waiting for one – but he knew where Bucky worked. The Howell Hotel sounded pretty swanky. He didn't know much more about it, since Bucky _still_ hadn't written.

Truth be told, Steve had no idea whether Bucky was much for writing letters, and the orphanage didn't have a computer, so no access to email. The only phone was in Regina's office, which was locked, and no one had any cell phones. Even if they did, Steve would need to find the number for the hotel, so he had no way to contact Bucky except through writing. And he didn't have the money for stamps.

He sighed, after another round of no success. And the comics were in colour today. Declaring the paper useless, Steve dumped it back in the magazine rack in the hallway, and went outside for his usual evening stroll. It felt good to get the crisp air into his lungs, and he felt closer to his ma when he looked at the stars. It was like she was looking down on him, telling him to stay positive. Tomorrow always had the potential to be better than today.

Yeah, Bucky laughed at him for thinking such things. But Bucky wasn't here anymore, so that left Steve to laugh at himself. And he did. At least until he heard near-silent footsteps behind him. The only reason people walked quietly was—

He ducked, avoiding the first swipe, and punched his attacker in the gut. There was a flash of metal – a needle; Steve had seen enough of those during his childhood – and he leapt out of the way. He kicked the man's head, stomped on his free hand, and then ran. Steve was in better shape than he used to be, and he was still light as a feather. He pushed on, not stopping until he heard the feet growing nearer. Then he skidded to a halt, grabbed a trash can lid, and swung it around. He hit the man in the face, missing the syringe by a scant inch, and saw the guy's wallet fall from his pocket.

The temptation was too great. While the man was down, Steve grabbed the wallet and ran again.

He actually got all the way to the docks. Was he following Bucky's footsteps? Well, he had to be. He got to the ticket booth, threw cash – probably too much – onto the counter, and accepted the ticket. He ducked out of sight and counted up the rest of the money.

It was a lot. Way too much. The stranger had attacked Steve, and was waving around a needle filled with who-knew-what. But the ID didn't match Steve, and he didn't want to be considered a thief, even to his own mind.

If he went to the police, he'd be taken back to the orphanage, and Regina Schmidt. No way in hell was that happening.

Bucky's letter may've been in the mail, but it was too late for that. Steve had a ticket to New Jersey, bought on instinct rather than impulse. He tore off his outer coat and hat, and left them by the water. He took half the money, which was still a hell of a lot, and shoved it into his back pocket. He tore a bit of a sticker from a crate and, using the pencil he always carried with him, wrote a note.

'Don't come after me, and I won't tell the cops your name.'

He stuck it just inside the wallet, and placed it beside his clothes. He ducked through the shadows, onto the waiting boat, and sat in the dark.

Just as they were pulling away, he saw his stalker run into the light of a lamp-post. He scoured the area, and looked towards the boat. Then he walked towards Steve's clothes.

Finally feeling safe, Steve turned back to look out the front of the boat. Knowing his luck, he'd end up being seasick. Good thing they had a bathroom on board, probably for that very reason. Grateful that he'd managed to catch the last boat, Steve settled back, two names on his mind: the name of Bucky's hotel, and Arnim Zola, the man who'd tried to hurt Steve.

* * *

Bucky had taken to pacing whenever it was just him at the bar. He'd gone from busboy to bartender at the hotel pretty quickly. But then, he'd always been a hard worker, and he had extra incentive. He had to get together enough money to find a place for Steve to live, preferably close to a hospital, because his best friend sure did have a way of running into trouble. Or trouble running into him. Hard to tell which.

Steve still hadn't responded to the letter. Bucky had written, enclosing a stamped, self-addressed envelope and extra stationery. Steve always had some kind of drawing material on him. It'd be nothing to send a reply. He may be well-liked, but Bucky didn't want to risk losing his job by asking for a day's leave to return to New York and bring his friend back.

He always worried about this, and about the number of letters he'd sent. None of them had been returned. Was Schmidt keeping them from Steve? God, who knows? The thought of her doing that made Bucky even more determined to rescue his brother from her evil clutches. She was like a fairytale villain, and Steve was the damsel-in-distress (not that he'd ever admit it, the stubborn so-and-so).

Wiping the counter for the umpteenth time, Bucky was startled to hear his name being called. He ran into the lobby, and was shocked to see Steve, bent double and gasping.

"Steve!" he shouted, sprinting to his friend's side. "Oh God. D'you have your inhaler?"

"In… coat…"

"Well?"

Steve coughed. "Left it. Beside. River."

"Beside…? Damn it, Steve! Just breathe."

"An ambulance is on its way," Maria said. Bucky continued to hold Steve.

"The hell happened to you?" he asked.

"Man… tried to… kill me…"

Bucky held him tighter, mindful of Steve's heaving chest. "Breathe," he whispered. "Just keep breathing for me, Stevie."

* * *

No one came after Steve. Bucky stayed with him at the hospital overnight, getting the full story between huge puffs through an oxygen mask.

"We have a maid's opening at the hotel," Bucky finally said at the end. "I'll ask management. I'm sure they wouldn't object to a male cleaner. Put you in a maid's outfit, and who'd be able to tell the difference?" He sniggered, though it sounded like it was bordering on hysterical. Steve rolled his eyes.

"He might've just been going to knock me out," he said. Bucky stopped laughing.

"And then what?" he asked sharply. "Mugged you? When he found you didn't have anything of value, what could he have taken?"

"I'm trying not to think about it, Bucky. And I resent the implication that you think I look like a girl."

"Just androgenous," Bucky said.

"Ooh, 'androgenous'," Steve teased. "Living in a hotel's improved your vocabulary." He shrugged skinny shoulders. "If your boss hired me, I'd be living in the hotel with you, wouldn't I? So you wouldn't have to save up for another place?"

"I guess you're right," Bucky said. "I'll ask. Besides, you're cute. Who's gonna say no to this face?"

And then he took a picture on his phone, and showed it to Steve. While the picture was hideous – Steve was hooked up to machines and wearing a mask over his mouth and nose – he was intrigued by the cell phone.

"Cool," he said, poking at the buttons. The picture disappeared. "Oops."

"No big deal," Bucky said, waving him off as he tucked the phone in his pocket. "I'll take a picture of your ugly mug later on, when you're looking less like a science experiment."

"Thanks, Bucky," Steve said dryly.

* * *

Regina was keeping watch at her office window. As soon as she saw Zola, she opened the window and leaned out.

"Is he dead?" she asked. He approached her slowly, and then handed her the jacket and cap.

"The body is in the river," he said. Regina eagerly forked out the rest of the cash. Well worth it to get rid of Steve Rogers.

"He's really gone," she whispered, grinning as she scrunched the clothes up in her fists. She heard the rattle of the puffer, and vowed to get rid of it where no one would ever find it.

"You'll never see him again," Zola said. Then he melted into the night. Regina was too busy silently crowing over her victory. She pulled the window shut, and popped open a bottle of champagne – her other vice – to celebrate by herself.

* * *

**This is a fill for the kink meme, page 62 of round 24. It asked for Steve as Snow White, basically. Then I came up with all these notes, and **_**finally**_** got around to writing this. There are only three chapters, but they're still long enough.**

**Please review!**


	2. A Maiden Fair

"A Maiden Fair"

"Jerk," Steve muttered when Bucky held up the maid's uniform. "I'm not wearing that."

"I know," Bucky said with a grin. "You'll be wearing what I wore when I started out. Not the same, though. You still haven't filled out." He poked Steve's belly. Steve swatted his hand away.

"You're an ass," he said.

"And you're stubborn." He handed Steve a bag. "Go put this on. You're lucky the boss decided to give you a trial run."

Steve made a 'pshaw' sound. "The cleaning staff at the orphanage were cut back, or at least their hours were. Who d'you think picked up the slack whenever they weren't around?"

"Steve," Bucky said. He couldn't help feeling guilty for not being there. Steve held up a hand.

"Don't say it," he said. "You got me a job here. I'm far away from Schmidt. I'm only worried about the younger kids now."

"Whatever you do, don't try to contact them."

"Still on about that?" Steve asked, disappearing into the bathroom to change. His voice became muffled. "She's a witch, but I doubt even her ladyship would try to have me killed. Much easier just to steal my puffer and let the asthma do the rest. Hiring an assassin? That'd be too expensive."

"Half the time I think she's off her head on something," Bucky said, packing away the maid's outfit. If ever there was going to be a male maid, it'd have to be Steve, wouldn't it?

"Like what?"

"Drugs, alcohol. Who knows? Probably both."

He could imagine Steve's tut. "I really hope the others will be safe."

"If anything happened, the council and governors would have to oust her."

"Not comforting," Steve said, emerging from the room. Bucky rolled his eyes, and smoothed down Steve's hair. He'd had it cut in the hospital, but it still somehow seemed wild. Steve tugged at his waistcoat. "Do I look stupid?"

"Nah," Bucky said. "You'll do. Just be yourself. Everyone will love you."

"Ha." Steve fiddled with one of the buttons until Bucky smacked his hand away from it.

"Don't do that, or you'll pull it off," he said. "The stitching is pretty good, but the buttons always seem like they're gonna pop off, and they're gold-coated. Don't wanna go losing `em."

"Okay," Steve said. He shifted his tie until it was higher on his throat. "I'm ready."

* * *

Bucky was right. People really did seem to like Steve. He usually stayed under the radar, but when people heard that the maid was actually a boy, some of the clientele were curious to see him. He was polite, wouldn't accept tips – "I'm only here to clean the rooms" – and remembered everything he was told. He'd ask after family members and friends, charmed everyone without even trying, and his health improved. It helped that he was getting better health care now, and was in a more sanitary environment.

And he got to hang out with Bucky again, which was the best part. They shared embarrassing stories about each other with the rest of the staff on meal breaks. It was almost like old times. Steve's one request was that they never mentioned what happened to make him leave New York. As long as he didn't think about it, the nightmares never came.

There were regular clients. Because he still never accepted tips "just for doing my job", some of them gave him little gifts. A girl who travelled with her parents everywhere gave him a drawing one time, and flowers she'd picked in the garden. He kept one of them in his lapel pocket, and got some of the others cast in enamel to preserve them. Everything was appreciated and cherished.

Mr. Phillips had taken Steve on as a permanent employee less than a week after he started. He offered Steve a raise after three months.

"No thanks," Steve said. "It's nice of you, but I'm earning more than enough. Besides, if Bucky and I moved out, we're earning enough between us to find a nice place nearby. I'm just doing my duties."

"Sometimes you go beyond that, son," Mr. Phillips said. "You help the children who stay here even more than you help their parents, and that makes a real good impression on them."

"I'm used to taking care of kids," Steve said, shrugging. "Kinda become habit by now."

"Whatever it is you're doing, Rogers, keep doing it. People love you. Hell, they love Barnes for bringing you here."

"He's a great guy." Steve's eyes shone as they got onto his favourite topic. "He took care of me, and there's only a couple of years between us. Without him, I wouldn't be around today. I wouldn't have gotten out of New York if it wasn't for him."

"Well, thank the Lord for James Barnes, then," Mr. Phillips said. "Okay, get going, kid. Keep up the good work."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Lying back down on the sofa, Regina smiled blearily up at the ceiling.

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall," she said. "Who's the fairest of them all?"

"You are," the mirror said. She smiled.

"Of course I am," she murmured. "Always…"

There'd been no investigation into Steve Rogers's disappearance. No body had been found in the river, so she'd relaxed after awhile. The money spent had been a bit of a pinch to the orphanage's pocket, but she'd hidden that as successfully as ever. It wouldn't really be missed, and it'd been well worth it. She was the fairest once again, and she was free to enjoy her vice as she pleased.

No, there was no investigation, because no one would miss Steve Rogers. They didn't miss Barnes, either. The brats moped for a couple of weeks, so Regina had saved some money by skipping some of their meals. When they found that being more productive meant food, they stopped sulking about. It was excellent timing, because there'd been an inspection. She'd explained that both boys, being old enough, had left to get work. Also, being boys meant that they hadn't left any forwarding address. And who'd write to them?

Jobs were getting tough to find, so she was able to control the part-time staff by threatening to sack them if they stepped out of line. They knew she wasn't kidding, and behaved themselves.

Being the head of an orphanage was actually a pretty good job, as long as she didn't have to spend much time with the children. No one cared about them, no one questioned her, and she could justify punishments by saying that she was keeping the kids from becoming delinquents. Stack a few child-rearing and psychology books onto the shelf in her office, and people believed that she knew what she was talking about.

Batting her eyelashes, and wearing strategically tight shirts and short skirts, also got her what she wanted, which was usually more funding. If very little of that money went towards the upkeep of the orphanage, only she knew the truth. Her account books weren't going to talk, were they?

* * *

The killings had spread over a few states. They'd started out further south, then moved to New York, and now they looked to be spreading towards New Jersey. Nick Fury, head of the police department there, had been following the poison's tracks. Someone was manufacturing the complex, deadly substance, and nobody knew who. It seemed to be the new drug of choice, but it wasn't a readily available compound, which meant that someone was keeping the recipe secret. Which meant that whoever started it was probably still out there.

All over America, chemists, physicists, biologists, all the –ists were being interviewed, and their personal lives were being scrutinised. It didn't matter how helpful or unhelpful they were; they were all under suspicion, as well as talented school children. From the top of North America to the tip of South America, and all the islands besides; every lab was being scoured. Either someone in authority was protecting whoever was responsible, or they were cleverly hidden. Both, knowing Nick's luck.

There was a knock.

"Come in," he said. His best friend poked his head in the door.

"You sent for me, sir?" he said.

"Coulson, take a seat," Nick said. Phil approached the desk and sat where indicated. "Got any news for me?"

"On the poisoner? Not yet. But there are rumours of an attachment to a German pharmaceutical company."

"Hell," Nick said, scratching the back of his neck. "You know we'll be accused of racism if we point the finger at any Germans?"

"I'll try to find some other guilty Europeans so that we're not singling anyone out," Phil said, and he smiled wryly. "How're you doing?"

"I'd be doing better if On High didn't keep riding our asses about this case," he said. "If there was a set pattern… but the targets come from all walks of life. They may as well be manufacturing guns, or even carving knives out of stones. It's the same weapon."

"But we don't want anyone replicating it," Phil said.

"It could be hidden _anywhere_." Nick thumped the desk with his fist. "At least there are regulations on any of the common poisons. You can't impose regs on any of the components in this lethal mixture. You can't even track them."

"True."

"Don't sit there, looking so calm, goddamnit!"

"Sir, if I look panicked it won't help matters. You know what the doctor said about your blood pressure."

Feeling a vein throbbing in his temple, Nick massage the bridge of his nose. "I hate you, Coulson."

"No, you don't," Phil said mildly. "We'll get the perpetrator, sir. If it's the last thing I do."

"Not right now," Nick said. "You're on holiday. Banner was telling me off yesterday, for not forcing you to take leave."

"What? Bruce Banner?"

"Yeah, our shy, retiring forensic pathologist, and self-appointed Wrangler of Phil Coulson, the stubborn bastard who got himself skewered by a nutcase, and won't take a damn rest when he's told."

"He's very good at wrangling me."

"And he's very good at growing the balls to holler at me." Phil arched an eyebrow. "Laugh all you want, Coulson. He damn near scared me. You're taking leave."

"But the case—"

"Is being worked on across the country. Your team can take over for the time being." He leaned across the desk. "They're also worried about you. Take some time off, for all our sakes. But especially our forensic pathologist. I have sharp objects in here, and heavy ones. He looked close to throwing a paperweight at me, and you know he's stronger than he looks."

Phil huffed a sigh. "Very well."

"Congratulations. You've won yourself a month at the Howell Hotel. Rest. Don't read the papers. No one's gonna call you. Banner will visit to check up on you two or three times a week."

"Well, now I'm _bound_ to relax."

"That's an order, Coulson."

* * *

Steve walked in on a man buckling his trousers. There was no 'keep out' sign on the door handle, and most people changed in the bathroom if that was the case.

"Oh!" he said. "Sorry. I'll come back."

"No, wait," the man said. He was just a bit taller than Steve, but then Steve wasn't all that tall. "My fault. First time in a hotel. I thought the door was locked."

"It was," Steve said. He could feel his cheeks starting to burn. "Housekeeping?" He indicated the trolley behind him. "I'm here to make the bed. But… I see you've already done that."

"Uh, yeah. Ex-military."

Steve nodded, swallowing. "My name's Steve. I'm the… maid. Well, male maid. Uh, just the cleaner."

"There's no such thing as 'just' a cleaner," the man said. He walked forward. "My name's Phil Coulson. I'm a cop, and trust me. Cleaners are highly underrated. But then most of the cleaners I know clean up after blood, and… sometimes other things. And my mom was a cleaner. God, I'm babbling." He laughed shakily. "Is there a sign or something?"

"For…? Oh, uh. Yeah. On the door handle." He plucked it off from the inner handle, and showed it to Phil. "Make sure you have it facing the right way out. One side for 'Keep out', the other for 'Needs cleaning'."

"I'm so used to cleaning up after myself at home…"

"Please, sir. It's my job."

Phil's face softened. "Of course. I'm sure you're very good at it."

"People seem to think so," Steve said. "I'll come back later, then. Is there anything I can do for you before I go?"

"No, I don't think so. Uh, here." He dug around for his wallet. Steve stepped back.

"I don't accept tips," he said. "Thanks for the thought, and others are happy to take tips, but I don't."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Phil shrugged, tucking it back into his pocket. "Okay. I'll be here for a month, so…" He trailed off, looking suddenly awkward, almost like a school boy would, or so Steve imagined.

"I'll probably see you around, then," he said.

"I hope so," Phil said quickly.

Steve couldn't help smiling as he ducked back out of the room. He hung the notice on the door handle, with 'Keep out' facing the corridor, and went on to the next room.

* * *

It amused Bucky to no end when Steve came to him a week later, flustered and red-faced and wringing his hands.

"It's a bad idea, isn't it?" Steve said. "And it's probably against hotel protocol, but I've never wanted to say 'yes' before, and now I do—"

"Slow down, or you'll give yourself a heart attack. I mean it, Stevie. Stop pacing like that."

Steve sat down abruptly, and stared at Bucky. "One of the guests has asked me out."

"Not the first time."

"I know that! I don't know why anyone asks, or even flirts… if, if that's what they're doing."

"Yeah, because you have no self-esteem. Did you even bother applying for jobs, or just assume that you wouldn't be noticed?"

"I applied. I did, Bucky."

"Uh-huh. So which guest was it? Coulson?" Steve's mouth opened and shut like a fish, and then he nodded. "Thought so. The guy's had a crush on you since he got here. It's kind of hilarious."

"Don't say that!" Steve snapped. "He's a nice guy, and I like him, and… I kind of want to say 'yes'. But he's a guest. Can I even do that?"

"Did you tell him you'd think about it?"

"I… kind of squeaked, then left. At a run. Maybe." Well, that explained the red face.

"Smart move, Steve. Really."

He groaned, and covered his face. "I feel like such an asshole."

"You are an asshole."

"Shut up."

"You've never reacted like this before."

"Well…" Steve's head came up from behind his hands. "I sort of wasn't expecting it. No one I've ever been… interested in before has ever given me a second glance."

"Because they didn't know you," Bucky pointed out gently. "Did you lead him on?" Steve gave him a withering look. "Nah, not you. You wouldn't be that cruel. Besides, you wouldn't have the first clue how to lead someone on. Okay, you've gotta make up your mind, here and now. Do you want to go on a date with Mr. Coulson?"

"Yes," Steve said miserably.

"So go tell him that before he starts drowning his sorrows or something. He's gonna think you've rejected him."

"But what if Mr. Phillips doesn't let me?"

"I don't see the problem. You already sleep in this hotel. I don't think he cares whether it's in your room or not, as long as you're finally getting some kind of action."

Bucky dodged the apple thrown at him. Steve looked at the ground, biting his lip.

Then he ran out. Bucky sincerely hoped he was going straight back to Coulson's room.

* * *

Big events were often held at hotels, and the most significant ones made it into the newspapers. In this case, it was a political conference masked as a charity gala with a lecture beforehand, and plenty of photo opportunities.

Not all the kids at the orphanage could read, but they liked looking at the pictures. One of them pointed at a bigger picture, where some of the hotel staff were in the background, and squealed.

"It's Steve!" she said. "And look, there's Bucky."

"Wow, they clean up real good," one of the boys said, looking over her shoulder. "You sure that's Bucky?"

"Yeah." It was only his profile, but definitely him. "Doesn't Steve look handsome?"

"He looks happy."

"He always had the prettiest smile in the world," an older girl said, and she sighed. "His new haircut suits him."

"What is going on here?"

The children all scrambled backwards and got to their feet. Regina indicated that she wished to look at the newspaper. When she finally took it, her eyes scanned the photograph. Sure enough, there was Steve Rogers. Alive. Working at a hotel in New Jersey.

It couldn't be.

She dropped the newspaper and stormed out. It was time for a bit of smoky reassurance.

* * *

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?" she asked, certain of her answer. Just because Rogers was alive meant nothing.

"Steve Rogers is the fairest," the mirror replied.

"…What? No!"

"You have seen it. He is fairer than you, and happier as well. You know this."

She screamed into a cushion, cursing that devil poisoner for lying to her.

Steve Rogers had to die. So she would have to do it herself.

* * *

**Oh noes!**

**Please review.**


	3. Bad Apple

"Bad Apple"

Steve's waistcoat was open and his shirt had ridden up a bit. Phil was currently tracing circles around his navel, lying on his side on the bed. Steve was staring at the ceiling with a small smile, his be-socked toes buried under the covers.

"Never thought this would happen to me," he said.

"What, lying on a fancy hotel bed?"

"Nah," Steve said, head rolling so he could see Phil. "Not just that, anyway. You."

"Me?"

"Yeah. Someone liking me… like that."

"Like this?" Phil said, and he leaned over and kissed Steve.

"Mmm," Steve confirmed after Phil pulled back. "I'm gonna miss you after you go back to work."

"I love my job," Phil said. "And I hate taking leave. But I'm so glad my boss made me have some time off, or I never would've met you. Is it bad that I just want to stay here with you, forever?"

"Maybe not forever," Steve said, blushing. "Life, all that. But…" He placed his hand on Phil's, halting its movements. "I agree with the sentiment. I wish this could never end."

"Does it have to?" Phil asked.

"Phil…"

"I mean it, Steve. If we could coincide nights off or something, we could still go to the movies or dinner, or both. You're legal. Barely, but still legal, otherwise I'd feel a hell of a lot more guilty about this," he added in a mutter.

Steve studied his face. He loved Phil's face. There was so much gentleness there whenever he looked at Steve. His eyes were a shade of blue which had become Steve's favourite colour. He was the handsome of movie stars of the Golden Age, in Steve's eyes.

"We could try," he said. "I want to."

Phil shook his head, and moved his hand to cup Steve's cheek. "How'd I get so lucky? I must've done something spectacularly good in a past life."

Steve smiled, and curled up into his side. He was gonna hold onto this while he could.

* * *

Zola recognised the mad woman at once. He despised selling to druggies; they did terrible things while not in their right minds, and then blamed him for their mistakes. But she wasn't dosed to the gills when they met and she made the abhorrent request of him. No matter how young the boy was, he seemed even younger, and there was something so much more despicable about killing children.

The scientist had very little in the way of feelings for anything or anyone, and his conscience was virtually non-existent. Yet he knew fear, and he had been dreading the moment Regina Schmidt discovered that the boy evaded him. He had escaped himself to New Jersey because the NYPD were putting on the heat, and it was time to expand again. Those he had educated in producing the Hydra drug remained where he had left them, while he travelled, searching for more buyers and distributors.

Now he was being collared by an incensed woman, never an entirely good combination. While she didn't tower over him, she still seemed as large as a giant in her sober rage; briefly, he questioned his life's choices.

"You cheated me!" she hissed.

"He fled," Zola said.

"Do not give me excuses. Give me _results_. He is here, in this very state. A hotel not far away. You will try again, and this time. You. Will. Not. Fail."

"I will provide you with the drug, but I will not undertake this," Zola said. "He will recognise me and run. Worse, he may report me to the police. He left a note saying that he would not inform them if I never made an attempted on his life again."

"Fool," Schmidt said. Beautiful she may have been, but not in a rage like this. "Does he know your name?"

"Possibly."

She growled and stalked away. Eventually she spun on her heel, and approached him again.

"You will give me the drug, and I will administer it myself," she said. "And you will not be paid. Consider it recompense for failing in the first place."

More worried about what she may attempt than the drug falling into the wrong hands, Zola handed her a sample vial of the poison.

"It must be mixed in pure water first," he said. "Then it can either be injected or ingested. This is not enough to kill outright; you will need to finish the job yourself—"

"It is more poetic that way," she said, staring at the powder in the light of the streetlamp.

"As you say," he said. "Do not find me again."

She waved him away, only half-listening ever since accepting the poison. She grinned, and left him.

Perhaps it was time to leave New Jersey? No. He would not be frightened off by one insane witch. He had more important business to transact, before the police could come across his trail.

* * *

Jasper smiled politely at the woman. Her makeup was a little too much, and he was pretty sure she was wearing a wig. It didn't look like her natural hair colour; it didn't match her dark eyebrows. And there was something too hard about her eyes, which contrasted with the beauty of her face.

"Here you are, ma'am," he said, dumping her bags on the floor. She flashed him a false smile, and stuffed a ten dollar bill into his shirt pocket.

"Thank you," she said. "I am only here for the night."

"You'll want help with your bags in the morning?" he asked. They seemed pretty light, despite being big bags. Too big for one night's stay. She was probably moving on somewhere else after this.

"No, I'm sure I'll be fine," she said. "Will someone be around to clean in the morning?"

"Yes, as long as you don't mind a male cleaner."

"Not at all," she said with her Stepford smile. "I will eat in the restaurant tonight, and perhaps for breakfast as well."

"Someone will bring it for you," Jasper said. "Anything else I can do for you?"

She looked him up and down. "Not at the moment. Perhaps later. Go now."

He saved making a face until he was out the in hall. She was creepy. Ms. King, he thought her name was. Johanna King? Steve was better at remembering stuff like that.

"Weird lady," he said when he reached the lobby again, and bumped into Bucky.

"Huh?"

"And I use the term 'lady' loosely."

"What're you talking about?"

"Woman I just helped upstairs, room three-oh-one," Jasper said, jerking his thumb towards the elevators. "Creepy as a horror movie villain."

"If there's a murder in the hotel, we'll know who did it, then," Bucky joked.

"I thought it was supposed to be the butler who did it."

"Yeah, but we haven't exactly got a butler here." Bucky winked, and returned to the restaurant, while Jasper went back to wait by the baggage trolleys in reception.

* * *

Regina didn't see Steve in the restaurant. She sat facing away from the bar, hoping that the cheap clothes and wig she'd bought were enough to fool Barnes. He was too busy serving other customers to pay her much notice, which was good. Someone was smiling on her intentions, if she was going undetected like this. Either that, or she was far sneakier than she gave herself credit for.

It wasn't until she went back to her room that she noticed a familiar blond leaving one of the rooms. He wished someone goodnight, thanked them once again for a pen they'd gifted to him, and then began to push the cleaning trolley.

He was the male cleaner. He would be coming to her room in the morning. All she had to do was poison him then, and make her escape while he was supposedly cleaning her room. He wouldn't be missed, not until the poison had had a chance to work its way to his heart, and end his 'fairness' once and for all. A perfect plan.

She considered that a guest had given him a present. He'd always been sickeningly sweet. What if she presented him with something to eat? He would take a bite, and then fall down dead. What could be simpler?

There was a bowl of fruit. She picked up one of the apples, the shiniest, reddest one of all, and washed it in the bathroom sink to brighten it up further. Then she set it, and a glass of water, on her bedside table. The vial of poison sat between. She would rise early, create the potion, and coat the apple in it. Even if it tasted awful, he wouldn't have time to react. Instant death!

Regina laughed loudly to herself as she collapsed back on the soft bedcovers. All her problems would be solved.

* * *

Steve noticed the housekeeping sign on the doorknob, and swiped his staff card to open the door. He kept it propped open with the edge of the cart. He could hear movement in the bathroom, and cleared his throat.

"Housekeeping," he announced.

"I'll be there in a moment!" she called. The strange woman in room three hundred and one, who Jasper had been complaining about. Her voice certainly sounded thick and raspy, as though she had cotton wool stuck down her throat. He shrugged off the unkind thoughts, and went about stripping the bed. He remade it efficiently, and was fluffing the pillows when the bathroom door opened and closed.

"I'll get out of the way," he said. He gave her a half-smile, not really wanting to linger. There was something about her, even in that glance, that he didn't like. And Steve really prided himself on liking nearly anyone. He went to move past her and fetch the used towels from the bathroom, when she stopped him.

"Wait, dear boy," she said. "Will you accept a present for your excellent cleaning skills? I have rarely slept in so well-made a bed, and the bathroom was spotless."

"Oh, uh—"

"A tip?"

"No, thanks. I don't accept them."

"Then at least a small token," she said. She picked up a shiny-looking apple, likely the one from the fruit basket. But if she thought she was doing him a favour, and wanted him to think that, who was he to reject the offer?

"Thank you, ma'am," he said, and he took it from her.

"Try it now, in case it's rotten," she said. Her voice sounded clearer then. It should've given him pause, but he hated to disappoint people, no matter how false they seemed. He tried to give the benefit of the doubt. What would one small taste do?

He obediently bit into the crisp flesh, and began to swallow…

* * *

Regina watched as his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell backwards onto the floor. He hadn't even had time to swallow, his death was that swift. Rather than shout her victory, she grabbed her bags, stepped over him, and made for the elevator. It was a fast ride downstairs at that time of morning, and she went straight to the desk to pay her bill. It was somewhat extravagant, but a necessary evil. Like Steve Rogers's death. She chuckled to herself suddenly, startling the receptionist.

On the way out, she ran into James Barnes. His eyes snapped to meet hers, and narrowed in suspicion.

"Have we met?" he asked.

Rather than replying, she bustled past him and leapt into the next taxi.

* * *

On the stairs, a horrible feeling settled in the pit of Bucky's stomach. He'd always suspected that Regina Schmidt had been the one to have Steve attacked, no matter what Steve said. He'd always been far too trusting of people who just didn't deserve it.

And now… he had the worst feeling that the woman who'd just brushed past him was Schmidt. In their hotel. The hotel where Steve was cleaning. At… at this time of day…

"God no," he whispered.

Bucky pelted through the lobby, making for the stairs. Floor three. He wasn't going to risk the elevators being slow. If he lost his job running into random guests, he wouldn't care. Steve was way more important.

Inside room three-oh-one, he came face-to-face with his worst nightmare.

"Steve!" he shouted, and he fell to his knees beside his friend, who was turning blue in the face. His chest was barely moving, and he was staring into space, a terrible look on his face. "Steve, oh God, wake up. Wake up!"

His screams must have attracted the other guests, because there was the sound of running feet. It sounded like Jasper calling for an ambulance, a doctor, anyone.

"Get Coulson!" Bucky said. "He's a cop."

It wasn't necessary. Coulson ran into the room two seconds later, and knelt on the other side of Steve. Bucky had already torn off the tie and ripped the top buttons open.

"Is an ambulance coming?" Coulson asked.

"Yeah," Jasper said.

"How did you know to come?" Bucky asked.

"Call it cop's instinct, but I just felt that something was wrong. I was making my way downstairs, floor by floor, when I heard you shouting."

"Thank God for your instincts."

Coulson leaned over Steve's body – oh Jesus, no, not _body_ – and sniffed his lips.

"Poison," he said. "We've been investigating this." His hands shook as he stroked Steve's cheeks. "Uh… okay." He trailed his fingers down Steve's throat. "There's something there. His chest's heaving. Something's blocking his airway." He rolled Steve onto his side and hauled him up. Then he thumped him on the back until Steve seized, and coughed up what looked like food. A bite of apple? Yes, there was an apple nearby, with just a bite taken out of it. Someone else joined them.

"Phil?"

"Bruce, it's the poison again. He's still alive, so I don't think there was enough, but his airway was blocked. I think it's clear now."

"Looks like he's breathing better. And here I was, thinking you were just trying to get out of another medical examination."

The guy had a medicine bag with him. He pulled out a stethoscope. Bucky vaguely remembered Steve gushing about how his boyfriend was a policeman on holiday, and that he'd been wounded in the line of duty, and had someone checking on him every so often. Dr. Flag? No, Banner? Something like that.

"Ambulance is here!" Jasper called.

"His spine's not in any danger," Bruce said. "We can't waste time. We'll carry him downstairs."

"I'll get them to wait in the lobby."

Coulson heaved Steve into his arms, though he probably still didn't weigh much, for all he said that he was bulking up. Ha. Bucky used his staff override; now that this was a bona fide emergency, he was allowed to. They zipped straight down to the ground floor, and Steve was soon being whisked away on a stretcher. Coulson insisted that Bucky go with him, said that he'd square it with Mr. Phillips.

"Just… look after him," Coulson said. This time he was talking to the doctor, who climbed in behind Bucky. "Okay, Bruce?"

"Phil, everyone knows how you feel about the kid," Bruce said. "We'll do everything we can to save him. But I think you need to prepare a report for Fury."

Coulson nodded. Bucky didn't doubt that he stayed standing where he was until the ambulance was out of sight. But right now, he had to give his full attention to Steve, and stay out of the way in case he coded.

If Steve died, Bucky was going to kill Regina Schmidt with his two bare hands.

* * *

It had been four or five months since Regina had poisoned Steve Rogers. She was happy until the day the opium den was raided. With her favourite club out of commission, and no realistic alternative, she was beginning to suffer withdrawal symptoms. It was getting so bad that she could have sworn the children were calling her a witch. She nearly tore her hair out in frustration, and raved up and down the halls at night.

And then the governors had the temerity to give her the boot, after they discovered her account books. The only highlight of that particular day was that she found a new den. It was a bit pricier – no doubt because the other one had been raided, and they could afford to raise the membership fees – but it was well worth it as she sank under the influence again.

It was gratifying hearing that she was the fairest one of all. However, one night…

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall," she drawled, arching in pleasurable anticipation, "who is the fairest of them all?"

"Steve Rogers is the fairest," the mirror said. Regina choked on her next inhale.

"It cannot be!" she said. "He is dead! I saw his collapse myself."

"Yet surely you saw him in the engagement notices?" the mirror replied. "He looked well indeed in that photograph. Well worthy to be called 'fairest of them all'. Much worthier than you."

Regina shrieked in anger. It couldn't be! She would find the paper and prove the mirror wrong. Steve Rogers was _dead_. She knew it. He had to be. _She_ was the fairest!

* * *

Steve recovered. He was fortunate. There had not been nearly enough poison to kill him; enough to paralyse him temporarily, and make him terribly ill. But the drug was flushed out of his system, and he received many presents and cards in hospital. And Phil was a frequent visitor. He took descriptions from any of the staff who had seen the woman who poisoned Steve, and the descriptions were sent to New York as well. They couldn't find Regina – she had apparently been declared corrupt and sacked from her position at the orphanage – but it didn't matter. There was a security detail on Steve.

There was also a search warrant for Arnim Zola. Steve had eventually given his name, since it seemed fairly indisputable that Schmidt had been out to kill him all along, and that Zola was probably linked to the second attempt.

It confirmed Nick Fury's suspicions, and blew the poisoning case wide open. Whenever he wasn't with Steve, Phil was pursuing leads like a dog scenting for blood. He wasn't allowed to go anywhere by himself, in case he lost his temper and killed whoever might have provided the drugs to Schmidt.

"My hero," Steve murmured into Phil's ear. "Wish I could marry you tomorrow."

"You're not eighteen yet."

"I will be, if no one else tries to kill me."

"Not funny," Phil said, frowning up at him. Steve was standing behind him while Phil studied the case files.

"If I don't make jokes about it—"

"I know, I know. You'll have nightmares."

"We've all got coping mechanisms," Steve remarked. "Wish I had a legal guardian."

"I still wouldn't marry you until you were old enough not to need one," Phil said. "And Bucky doesn't count as a guardian."

"Mr. Phillips—"

"Agrees that it's best to wait."

Steve made a face. "Well, I'd better get going. I'll see you tomorrow." He kissed the top of Phil's head. "Don't work too late."

"I won't," Phil said. It was an empty promise, which they both knew he was likely to break. But he was close to finding Zola. Once they had him, they'd nab every one of his associates, and hopefully find records of those who had purchased from him. Phil had been appointed leader of the investigation, and they hoped to have the whole thing tied up by Steve's eighteenth birthday. Then he'd be free to help plan the wedding, and he'd have a second attempt at holiday leave for their honeymoon.

Steve was training up a replacement for his position at the hotel, a girl this time, named Peggy. He'd found a job at an art school closer to the police station, starting as a cleaner, but he'd be able to take classes at a discounted price. Bucky had helped him negotiate that. Steve had his sights set on becoming a painter. Or, if he could get into college, maybe become an art gallery curator, or even an art historian. Phil was going to support him every step of the way.

It was the first time he'd felt truly loved since his mother's death.

* * *

It was all over the paper. The poisoning ring had been brought down by the police, led from New Jersey by Phil Coulson. Coulson was getting a promotion out of it, and everyone who had a connection to the ring, and managed to slip through the nets, were going into hiding.

Regina had disguised herself again, but found out that Rogers no longer worked at the hotel. With the police still scouring for anyone connected to Zola, and especially with Rogers's fiancé searching for whoever intended him harm… well, she could hardly go and ask where he was now.

She went underground, dumpster diving, stealing, turning tricks to stay alive. Rogers's birthday passed without her knowledge; half the time she was in a drugged daze, going from club to club to find the perfect fix.

The mirror no longer called her the fairest. It never would while Steve Rogers was alive. But Regina was running out of ideas.

Until the wedding was announced

"I've got you now," she whispered, crushing the notice in her hand. She ran out the door, not bothering with disguise. She'd killed him, if it was the last thing she did.

* * *

"Psst!"

"What is it, Bucky?"

"Ding, dong, the witch is dead," Bucky said. He grinned from the doorway as Steve arched an eyebrow.

"Which old witch?" he asked.

"The wicked witch."

"How?"

"Let me put it this way," Bucky said, pretending to examine his nails. "Your fiancé was right to plant some of his guys at the door to the chapel. They recognised her at a hundred yards, and a couple of them gave chase." He met Steve's eyes in the mirror. "It took one truck, and her not paying attention…"

Steve hissed through his teeth. "She's really dead?"

"Died at the scene."

He nodded. "I know it's unchristian to say so, but I'm glad. She could've hurt Phil."

"She was after _you_, Steve."

"Yes." Steve didn't look away from him. "And to hurt me, really hurt me, she would've had to go after you or Phil."

"Aw, that warms my heart," Bucky snarked. "You ready?"

"I've been ready for a long time," Steve said. "Why am I marrying someone so old-fashioned?"

"Coulson would probably say that everyone needs a little old-fashioned."

"Probably," he said, smiling fondly at the thought of his soon-to-be husband. "Okay. I'm coming."

He adjusted his bowtie, and left the room to go and marry his prince and get his happy ending.

AND THEY ALL LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER

* * *

***Inserts random references***

**Well, there we are, then! Much longer chapter than the previous two. Hope you all enjoyed it, especially the OP. I haven't been writing all that much Capsicoul at the moment, so it's nice to be able to return to my fandom roots, so to speak. (Hee-hee. Roots.)**

**Please review!**


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